The Dead of Night
by QuietLittleVoices
Summary: Most people would call John a 'Borrower', though he resented that title. He thought of himself more as a human, just in miniature. He lived a nice and peaceful, albeit lonely, life in 221 Baker Street until Sherlock Holmes moves in.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Written for a prompt from taters169 on tumblr for the AO3 Auction. She requested anything pocket!John. This is the first instalment.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Like seriously. I'm a broke high school student without a job.

* * *

Over the years, he'd learnt to become mostly nocturnal; it was easier to get around without anyone seeing you in the middle of the night, after all. This system had worked perfectly for him in all the years he had inhabited 221 Baker Street. At least, until Sherlock Holmes moved in.

The thing was, John Watson stood at about two inches in height. Though there wasn't really a name for people like him, he wasn't alone. Though, often, if they where seen by normal-sized humans, they where always called Borrowers because of that infernal book. Honestly, they just thought of themselves as human, because for all intents and purposes they _where_. Their internal organs worked teh same way, and they had all the same emotions; the only difference was size.

* * *

All but 221a Baker Street, in which Mrs Hudson lived, had lain unoccupied for just over a year when boxes started to show up in 221b. Knowing that whomever they belonged to hadn't completely moved in yet and was still sleeping somewhere else, John decided to sneak out from his little home in the wall when it started to get dark and peek into them.

He had a coil of thread that attached to a paper clip on one end, and the tossed that up to the top of the chair, trying to hook the paper clip around one of the bars on the back (it took three tries), and then he wrapped the end that was left in his hands around his waist and used the chair leg as foot holds to pull himself up. Then, he repeated the process from the chair onto the table, this time trying to hook the paper clip onto anything at all (it gained purchase on an exposed nail) and could only use his arms to get up to the top.

The first few where fairly normal; books upon books upon books. Medical journals, history books, really any informative text, ranging from things like basic first aid to beekeeping. John gathered from them that the soon-to-be new resident of the flat was one of those types of people who loved learning and gaining odd, new knowledge.

Box number two was slightly odd; filled with science equipment. A microscope, slides, droppers, petri dishes, all ranges of things. It really wasn't surprising, considering the books.

Finally, a simple box clothes in it. Nice, tailored suits, mostly, but also some underclothes and pyjamas.

After that, John busied himself in the kitchen, finding himself food and deciding that, after the night he'd had, he deserved a spot of tea from Mrs Hudson's flat.

* * *

He was roused from his slumber around noon that day by someone stomping around 221b and calling for Mrs Hudson. John got out of his little bed (which was cotton fluff held together with a small swatch of fabric in a tin can, and his blanket was a torn off corner from the afghan on the couch) to listen at the entrance to his home. There was also a small hope that they'd be standing where he could see them and yet still be safely out of view.

He heard light, hurried footsteps coming up the stairs, and the familiar woman came into view in the doorway. "What is it, dear?" she asked.

"Were you looking through my things last night?" the man (who was just out of John's view) asked. It was close to demanding, but there was a softer edge to it that lead John to believe the man held Mrs Hudson in a good place in his heart, like a mother.

She looked confused. "I wasn't in the flat last night, Sherlock. What makes you think I went through your things?"

"I _know_ someone was looking through them last night."

John paused to consider that for a moment. How could the man – Sherlock, apparently – have known he'd been looking through the boxes? He was sure that he'd been careful and had closed everything back up nicely and hadn't left any noticeable dents in the table from his little grappling hook.

Mrs Hudson sighed. "Sherlock, no one but me was in this building last night. You're just tired. Go take a nap and I'll be here with a cuppa when you wake up. Then you'll see that no one was here."

"But sleep is _dull_," he moaned. And if John didn't know better he'd have thought Sherlock was twelve; he was very skilled at whining. But Mrs Hudson fixes him with a look and he sighs, then moves to walk past her and down the stairs, pausing only to lean down and give her a quick peck on the cheek.

The most John got out of his appearance during the brief moments that he was in sight was that Sherlock was very tall, had pale skin, and a mop of black curls on the top of his head. And then he was gone. Mrs Hudson followed shortly thereafter, disappearing into her own flat, leaving John alone.

* * *

During the rest of the week, things where uneventful. Sherlock seemed to have brought all his things into the flat, as he stopped leaving at night, but he hadn't yet started to unpack. There where a few boxes still left untouched on the kitchen table, but Sherlock rarely came to that area of the flat. It was both nice and frustrating. Nice, because John had free reign over the flat and could do as he pleased without risk of getting caught, and frustrating because, in all honesty, John was intrigued with the strange, semi-reclusive man, intrigued in a way that he hadn't been with any of the past tenants.

But given the fact that John lived in constant fear of being found, he was glad to let go of his frustrations and revel in the fact that Sherlock wouldn't be bothering him.

* * *

A few days after he moved in, Sherlock came into the living room. John had been walking around idly, unable to sleep, and had had to dash for cover under the sofa to avoid being seen. From his hiding spot, he listened to what was going on, trying to judge when it would be safe to dart for his little hole in the wall. He heard Sherlock searching through the boxes, and decided that he could risk poking his head out as the man was more than likely faced away from him, due to the position of the table relative to that of the sofa.

Luckily for him, he was correct, and the only view of the man he had was of his suit-clad back. John wondered what he did for a living, since he didn't seem to come upstairs to eat so he must be getting take-away (unless Mrs Hudson was cooking for him, of course), and even though John couldn't get any for himself (for obvious reasons) he knew that it cost a fair amount to eat very often. So Sherlock must do something that gained a lot of money. But then why would he live in such a cheap flat?

Another thing to consider was that, though John could count the number of times he'd seen him on one hand, Sherlock was always dressed very smartly. There where a lot of jobs that required you to dress nicely, so that wasn't going to help. But what about the assortment of books and science equipment? Those seemed to point towards him being a doctor of some sort. Maybe a scientist. Probably worked frequently with chemicals and liked to do minor experiments at home.

John was so lost in thought that he didn't notice when Sherlock moved away from the boxes... and towards the sofa. He ran as far back as he could and then dropped to lie on his stomach so as to be as small as possible. His head was turned away from the edge of the sofa, so he didn't see grey eyes do a cursory sweep – and miss him entirely – nor did he see the man finding a small bit of string attached to a paper clip.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait and the fact that it's so short, but I was working on a SuperWhoLock fic and got carried away with that... To be fair, I'd been working on it long before I even signed up for the auction that this fic is for. But, Sherlock POV! It'll be back to John next chapter. Might to alternating POV's. Depends on how I feel moving forward.

* * *

It could have just been something that he or Mrs Hudson had dropped. Loosing small items like those was really very common, after all, especially in the midst of unpacking boxes.

The thing that stumped him wasn't just the little bit of string and the paper clip – it was the fact that the string had obviously been deliberately tied to the paperclip, which was bent slightly out of shape as if to hook onto things. That combined with the fact that he was _certain_ he'd seen something move under the sofa right before finding the object made him more confused than anything else had in a long while. It was refreshing; a good mystery was just what he needed. Things had been slow in the past few weeks, seeing as DI Greg Lestrade hadn't wanted to give him any cases while he was 'busy moving'. Which was stupid because it wasn't as if moving was sapping his mental abilities.

But he was completely and utterly _stuck_ looking at this paper clip and string. And he shouldn't be; he was the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and it was probably nothing, anyway. Logically, he knew that, knew that it was probably just something someone had dropped or knocked over or any number of things, really. However, he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that _something_ was different.

* * *

The bit of string was quickly the foremost thing in his mind. He realized that to figure it out, he'd need to know what it was used for, and so he thought of all the possible uses, and came up with a list. Which was a blank paper, because what the ever loving _fuck_ could anyone ever use a bit of string and a paperclip for?

His second clue in coming to a solution was found one morning when we entered the kitchen. A jar of peanut butter was over turned on the counter, and normally he'd discount that as Mrs Hudson's meddling as she was the one who'd bought the peanut butter in the first place, but there was something distinctly _different_ about this. Peanut butter is a fairly dense substance, and therefore nothing should have left the jar when it had fallen. Little bits of the substance around the mouth of the jar told a different story.

At first glance, they where just little ovals and some longer streaks, but upon closer inspection they almost looked like... footprints. But that was impossible, illogical. There couldn't be anyone that small. But Sherlock couldn't discount the evidence and it all seemed to point to one thing: there was someone very, very tiny living in his flat.

* * *

The plan was simple. Catch this... being in the act. For once, Sherlock was glad that Mycroft had installed surveillance cameras in the flat.

After some very creative hacking, he found the feed from the night before. He decided to watch the whole thing, starting from when he'd left the living room himself that night. For fifteen minutes, nothing happened. And then there was movement against one of the walls. Very small and almost impossible to notice, but it was Sherlock's job to notice things. The small dot moved along the screen quickly and entered the kitchen, effectively leaving the view of the camera. It returned thirty minutes later and just as quickly as before exited where it had entered.

"What are you?" he breathed.

* * *

Now that he knew that there was, in fact, something strange going on in his flat, Sherlock needed a plan to _catch _the thing. He didn't want to kill it, so mouse traps and things of the sort were out of the question.

Whatever it was had more than likely lived life as small as it was for a long while, and had avoided detection for just as long, so Sherlock had to admit that it was probably fairly smart and resourceful. Therefore, he couldn't exactly hide in the flat and wait for nightfall and just catch the being; he was much too big and inconspicuous. The plan, in the end, was a lot simpler than hiding and waiting. After all, they always said hiding in plain sight was best.

* * *

The being would need to leave it's house every night to stock up, so Sherlock would situate himself in the living room all night. Not in an obtrusive way – like sitting at the coffee table doing research or reading cold cases that Lestrade had given him all night – because that would scare the creature off, but he would pretend to sleep on the sofa.

His plan was to spend the evening doing things around the flat, busying himself. Cleaning, research, the aforementioned cold cases... And then he'd lay down on the sofa and listen carefully for movement.


End file.
